Teenlock: when they met
by scienceofseducjohn
Summary: Sherlock. The name sounded unordinary when John repeated it silently in his mind. Unordinary but just a bit beautiful. Perfect. - John was on the tube when he met him. - Teenlock story. Slash. Not sure if I will write more stories in this universe... Also on my Deviantart page. c:
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything of the tv series Sherlock produced by the BBC or any of its characters.

* * *

_It was on the tube when John met him. _

He was sitting at the very end of the train, thinking he'd be left alone there while hurriedly writing an essay on WWII: he would need to have finished with it within half an hour. So frankly, he was quite annoyed when another boy walked in to sit on the bench opposite to him. John only momentarily glanced up at the black-haired boy, engrossed in the words he was scribbling down.

Long moments passed in silence with John paying no attention to the figure, instead writing on in a hurried pace, his writing getting increasingly illegible as precious time passed.

Then suddenly,  
"It should be _Anne Frank_, not _Ann Frank_."

"What?"

John looked up at the other boy, who had eyed his paper suspiciously and was now staring out at dark nothingness through the window. The boy didn't look at him, merely huffed in annoyance before saying, "You wrote down '_Ann Frank_' while the correct spelling of her name is '_Anne Frank_', with an '_e_' at the end of her first name."

John tore his gaze away from the sharp angles of his face, his dark curls, to look down at his paper again, picking up his pen to correct his mistake, a flush creeping on his cheeks. He knew that.

"Yeah, I know." he muttered. Then, "Thanks.".

The boy looked at him at his words, his eyes hooded and his expression dismissing.

"You also misspelled the words '_indication_' and '_Auschwitz_'." John stared at him during the awkward silence that followed. The mysterious boy was searching John's face as if he were looking for proof that he wasn't being mocked, narrowing his eyes.

Then he went on, "You're a college student studying in London, living with your mother, possibly also a father, brother and a small dog. You're relatively poor but your parents saved up money so that you can go to college and your brother is an alcoholic."

The other boy looked away quickly avoiding eye contact, instead staring out of the window carrying a pained expression. John didn't know what to say to that, so he just gaped at him. How could he, a stranger, possibly know all that about John? He was fairly sure he'd never met him, and John didn't really do social media or any other form of helping complete strangers to personal information.

"Uh... Have we met before?" John finally asked. But the boy just shook his head, a smug smile tugging at his lips.

His eyes weren't smiling.

"Nope."

"Then how could you possibly... how?" John must have looked at least a bit silly, his mouth hanging open and throwing his hands up, but he was completely overthrown. Because this wasn't possible, who had he heard this information from? It wasn't as if John had that many friends: he had acquaintances, sure: people he socialized with, went to their parties and talked to at school. But real friends, who he could trust with personal issues, who would, if asked, come running in the middle of the night, not really. Sure, he had Mike and Sebastian, but that was about it. And it was only Mike he had told that last particular thing to.

"You don't have a ticket for the tube but a subscription, only valid in the city of London. Easy enough. The dog, then. White hairs on your trousers, not higher than the knees, though, indicating a small white dog. Then there's your mobile phone. You know it already: it's the inscription. Says 'For Harry, xxx Clara' three kisses indicating a lover. Modern phone, carelessly given away to you. From your brother, then, who doesn't care anymore for this 'Clara' person. Your clothes are quite clearly not the newest I'm afraid, and only nearly your size: at least one size too big, I'd say. Not new, then, meaning not exactly rich. Probably from your older brother or bought at a second-hand shop. Then how could your parents afford college? Most likely they've saved up some money. Finally there's the label stickers on your books"

John looked down at his open bag: his books were sticking out.

"the subjects written on the labels are in a different and far neater handwriting than yours. So, a mother. So" He said, pausing for effect, and John might have been gaping at him when he finished his monologue, "you live either in or around London, have a small white dog, an alcoholic brother, an organised mother and are poorer than most."

Thick silence filled the room after the flood of words had come to an abrupt stop, and the boy looked away again, out of the window, his brow furrowed and expression unreadable. After a moment, he abruptly turned to stand up and leave, but made the mistake of looking at John first.

When John met his eyes, the boy stopped in his tracks, his expression changing into a surprised one and his blue eyes growing wider, brighter, under his dark mop of curly hair.

He faintly reminded John of a puppy.

Then John shook his head and grinned (why was he happy he wasn't supposed to be happy with this person intruding his personal life, oh but he had something, the other boy: there was something about him but John couldn't quite put his finger on it).

"Amazing" he muttered, looking up again in the blue eyes now clearly filled with misunderstanding.

"I err-" the boy began, shifting uncomfortably. He cleared his throat and looked away briefly, then asked bluntly: "Sorry what?" And was John imagining the way his pale cheeks were sparkling to life with the slightest hint of red?

"Amazing!" John repeated, "That was... well bloody amazing, how you worked that all out. God, you sounded like a genius just then."

And now the boy looked down at his shoes, not quite hiding the way the hint of red became a deeper colour on his cheekbones. "You think so?" He said, looking up again from under his eyelashes. He looked... strange, almost alienate, but in a good way. Yes: definitely a good way, John decided, studying his eyes. A bit beautiful even, he caught himself thinking.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say." He said absentmindedly after a few seconds, looking over at the window.

A moment of shared silence. Not in an awkward way, though. It was... nice. Comforting. The thick suspense that had filled the room earlier had gone the instant John had complimented him.

"What do people normally say?" The boy looked back at John when he asked the question, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

"Piss off." He said, and, for some unfathomable reason, he cracked a smile and now he was laughing, and John suddenly felt he was laughing too, uncontrollably, giggling like a mad person. But it didn't matter because they were both. And this was such an odd situation that he didn't care in the slightest about standards and norms.

After the giggles had subsided John released a relieved breath of air he hadn't known he'd been holding as the boy moved to sit next to him in favour of continuing his initial plan of leaving.

"Sherlock Holmes" he said, extending his hand. John took it and shook firmly, a sense of happiness washing over him and making his smile reappear, now plastered to his face permanently. "John Watson" He said. Sherlock grinned at him with brilliant eyes, finally letting go of his hand.

The rest of the train journey was sat out talking. Mainly Sherlock explaining various deductions, with the occasional eye-roll accompanied by a muttered 'obviously' when John asked 'stupid' questions, though John could tell he was secretly pleased with someone being interested. And John marveled at his abilities, his reasoning.

When half an hour had passed, John felt that he was reluctant to leave Sherlock behind.

"Well," he said, interrupting Sherlock's monologue about one of his experiments with an apologetic smile and gesturing towards the corridor that led to the exit of the train "this is me."

Sherlock's brow furrowed, and then his expression cleared, as if he was surprised that John would ever want to get away of him. He cleared his throat and stammered an awkward "Oh.. uh.. yes, of course."

He quickly got up to let John move out next to him, raking a hand through his dark curls, his eyes cast down when he asked "So.. I guess I'll see you tomorrow?" He was clearly aiming to let it sound calm, under control. But in some way or another it sounded just that bit quavery, shaky.

John tried to grin reassuring at him, slung his bag over his shoulder and said "You bet, mate." before turning to walk to the nearest exit, leaving Sherlock behind to sit back and stare out of the window for the remainder of his journey, wondering...


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything nor any of the characters of Sherlock.

John hates Mondays. Everyone hates Mondays: it is a widely accepted rule of anyone old enough to have to go to school or his or her job.

This Monday, though... No, not this Monday. After all, it had been a week since he had met the mysterious Sherlock Holmes at the tube in the morning rush hour, and far too long according too John. Every day he had wondered if he would see him again. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. And on Friday, John had almost given up hope: maybe Sherlock only took the tube on Mondays? Maybe it had been only the once that Sherlock had taken the tube?

But here John was, in the tube and yet again pathetically hoping for the other boy to arrive. Staring at the words forming long sentences of his copy of _The Lighthouse_, he sat in his seat, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. _Tomorrow_, Sherlock had said._ I'll see you again tomorrow? . _His voice echoed in his head, reminding John of it sounding just a bit too low for his age, reminding him of his curly hair and shy smile and John couldn't help but feel more than a bit disappointed that he hadn't come.

He needn't have worried, however, because just as John had finally started losing himself in the _Adam Dalgliesh Mystery_ novel, a familiar voice surprised him, pulling him out of the story and back to the surface of the present.

"Uhm... John." John looked up quickly, and smiled warmly when he saw the unsure smile pulling Sherlock's lips upwards slightly. "Hello Sherlock." Sherlock just stood there awkwardly for a few seconds before pointing to the seat next to John.

"Is it okay if I..?" He trailed off, dropping his hand to his side as John hastened to say, "Oh! Sorry, yes. Of course you can. Sorry, I should have..." He ducked his head to try and hide, in vain, the way he blushed a bright red

Sherlock quietly sat down next to him. Avoiding his gaze, John stared down at his hands lying in his lap.

They began talking at the same time,

"So, John.."

"I wondered..."

When John looked up at Sherlock, pausing, pale eyes were staring at him curiously, and eventually it was Sherlock who continued talking,

"John, just for the sake of convenience, could you give me your phone number? Never know when I'm going to need it."

"Sure." Grateful for having something to do with his hands other than fiddling with the pages of his book, he took his phone to look up his number, and Sherlock saved it in his own iPhone with rapid movement of elegant fingers on touchscreen as John read it aloud.

John stared at Sherlock's fingers which were still busy typing after he'd put his phone away again, lost in thought. Sherlock cleared his throat, and when John met his eyes, one of Sherlock's eyebrows was quirked up, his lips forming a smug smile. John ducked his head and rubbed his neck, feeling embarrassed. What was the matter with him?

"So." Sherlock began talking at last, breaking the silence that hung between them,

"I assume you've been waiting for me to return."

John's head snapped up to look at him again, and couldn't suppress a smile as the confident look on Sherlock's features – the quirked eyebrow, smug smile and his eyes shining with amusement - made something deep in his gut stir, causing a warm and content feeling to spread through his body, and John tried very hard not to think what that unexpected feeling might mean.

"Yes, why didn't you come last Tuesday?"

"I couldn't. I was otherwise engaged: attempting to point out to the Scotland Yard the obvious signs of an unsolved point of a murder case." Sherlock frowned, obviously annoyed, and sighed. "They wouldn't listen to me."

At John's reaction, Sherlock quickly explained the whole situation. Carl Powers, a young swimmer had been poisoned, but something had been wrong about the crime scene – where were the shoes? Another round of explanations later, and John had finally caught up.

"So, you're saying you – with your deductions -" John stared at him, amazed "you tried to persuade Scotland Yard of your point because they had overlooked something but you hadn't."

Sherlock nodded, his gaze fixed on John the whole time, who shook his head and smiled before saying, "You are full of surprises."

Sherlock looked away quickly to hide his smile, but just too late as John saw it anyway.

When a comfortable pause fell after some meaningless chatter John took a deep breath, finally feeling confident enough to ask the question that had been spooking through his head the whole week.

"So uhm, Sherlock... I wondered if you'd maybe, if you'd like to-"

John was struggling to find the words, not sure why; surely it was a normal thing to ask? Why should he be nervous to ask him? But Sherlock spared John the effort of asking his question, interrupting him,

"I'd be more than happy."

For a moment, John was startled. He looked at Sherlock, then slowly said "I wanted to ask... I mean that is... if you want to..." And right now, he wanted nothing more than for the floor to swallow him whole, a blush vehemently taking over his features under Sherlock's scrutinizing gaze.

"You want to invite me to your home." Sherlock said before John could begin to apologise, and John's head snapped up to look at him again.

The smug smile was back, a sparkle in his eyes, and John couldn't stop himself from grinning at the sight of him.

Sherlock showed up at John's doorstep early, and when John opened the door and he was actually there.

Sherlock was here, at his house.

He stood in a leather jacket, cigarette in hand. When he saw John he let it fall and ground it out with the tip of his shoe.

"Sherlock. Come in." John stepped aside so Sherlock could enter the house walking past him, letting his eyes take in the small hallway with doors on either side leading up to the stairs.

When he set his eyes on John, a he couldn't suppress a fluttering feeling deep in his gut. Sherlock was wearing a tight black t-shirt above dark blue jeans, and his black curls were a mess as a result of the wind outside.

"So." He said, and John closed the door, gesturing for Sherlock to follow him up the stairs as he made his way upstairs, to his room. "Follow me."

His room was nothing special, as ordinary as if it could have been from any boy his age: lit by two windows letting in sunlight, a small bed on the far end of the room, a wooden desk and drawer.

"So. Welcome. This is where I live. Where I do my homework, sleep, think about...stuff."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and met his eyes, shrugging off his jacket to reveal the pale skin of his arms that had been hiding beneath the leather.

"So you do? You actually think?" He said, mock-surprised, and it was the worst joke but John laughed anyway.

Dinner was a disaster.

Sherlock sat next to John, John's own mother opposite himself and his father opposite Sherlock while Harry had shoved an extra seat for herself in between her parents' chairs.

Silence stretched for a long time and was only broken when they began eating. Harry, after shoving a forkful of pasta in her mouth, said,

"So, you're the infamous Sherlock. John's been talking about you. Said you were the cleverest person he'd met." And if there was a good time for him for blushing furiously, it was now. John looked down at his plate, practically feeling the way Sherlock would now be smiling smugly.

"Quite correctly, I can ensure you."

Harry did not, thankfully, dwell on the subject, instead saying, "You know, you're pretty cute. I can see what John sees in you." John almost choked in his spaghetti, his head snapping up, and he immediately began stammering excuses.

"What?! No! No it's not like that we're not-" he swallowed, looking at Sherlock as if urging him to support him. However, his face was an impassive mask, so John turned back to her, "we're not _dating_, Harry."

But Harry just shrugged, "If you say so."

The next time the silence was broken was when his father spoke,

"So. Sherlock...?"

"Holmes, sir."

"Sherlock Holmes. I see you and John have become pals real quickly."

A short moment in which nothing was said, and John wished really, really bad for a miracle that would allow him to take Sherlock's hand and drag him out of his house, far away from the awkward mess of his family.

At last Sherlock spoke, his tone sounding as if daring the man to reply "I see _you_ haven't."

John's father dropped his fork and knife with a clatter onto his plate and, after staring hard at Sherlock for a long ten seconds, his features taut and infuriated, got up to walk away.

"Oh dear, not again." His mother breathed. She tried to stop him, but her voice hardly sounded urging or firm.

"Please Adam, just come and sit down, we've almost finished anyway and this isn't nice for John and his friend, is it?" But he'd already left the kitchen, so she turned back to the table with hunched shoulders, avoiding everyone's gazes.

When Sherlock announced that, "I need a smoke." John excused both Sherlock and himself before rushing off after Sherlock who had opened the door and, stepping outside, pulled a cigarette from the package in his trousers.

He lit it and took a drag, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs. John shut the door behind them.

"Smoking's bad for your health."

Sherlock did not meet his gaze, instead staring up at the dark blue of the sky. It seemed to be a starless night, but it was the light pollution of the busy city hiding them from sight. John wished he could leave this city, his life, just go away and leave this all behind. Travel to the country or to Europe. Away.

"I know." He said, and John moved over to stand next to him. They just stood gazing up at the sky, nothing to say but thinking too much. John closed his eyes at last, concentrating on not giving in to the urge to lean in against the tall figure next to him.


End file.
